


a rose by any other name

by delsicle



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alpha Louis Tomlinson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Extended Metaphors, Flowers, Freeform, Gardener Louis, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Omega Harry, Rich Harry, Symbolism, but like..make it a metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24869683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delsicle/pseuds/delsicle
Summary: Harry is a sheltered omega who is the pinnacle of good breeding, but the flowers in his family’s garden – and the alpha gardener who keeps them – prove to be his greatest weakness.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 211





	a rose by any other name

**Author's Note:**

> I posted a dumb thing on tumblr last week and then wrote a few thousand words because I'm gay and depressed, idk what else to say. Also I hope y'all enjoy some rare omega harry, as a treat. 
> 
> This fic doesn't contain any porn but also all of it is metaphorical victorian porn so there's that 
> 
> Original post: https://eeveelou.tumblr.com/post/621137979198652416/haha-what-if-i-wrote-a-victorian-au-where-harry-is

Harry Styles had one vice, and it was roses.

He was, for all other intents and purposes, a perfect omega son. He had been trained endlessly and precisely in etiquette, never went outside without perfectly arranging his hair and his skirts for the day, and attended every party he received an invitation to. He had undergone the exact number of years of classical piano, French, and literature studies expected of him, and performed excellently in each of them. And that winter, just a few days after he had turned twenty, he had received a marriage offer from an alpha who had been pre-vetted by his parents and who would offer him a good future. His life was nothing if not a perfect example of practice, patience, and control.

But roses made him loosen around the edges, a genuine adoration for them that seemed unseemly against the well-practiced core of his character.

He had been drawn to the flowers seemingly from the moment he had come out of the womb. One of the earliest memories his wet nurses could recall was walking in on him in the crib to find that somehow, he had gotten hold out of a rosebud and was trying to stuff it into his mouth. Apparently Gemma had put it in there, thinking it looked pretty next to his frilly white sheets and toys. He had not lost a taste for the things since.

Now, every few days for the last several years, his maids would bring a fresh bouquet of roses to his room to match the season and his latest mood; white or pink for when he had been especially well behaved, yellow was for when he was active and a bit reckless, and red was reserved for when he was distant and moody. His maids had come up with the system on their own and he had never protested. But he hated to tell them now, years after they had started, that red roses were his favorite.

Outside the manor, Harry’s family had an extensive garden, full of sprawling pathways laced between flower beds, hedges, and small stone benches. It was one of Harry’s favorite places, and every day he spent his daily allotted hour of exercise out in the garden, although he spent most of his time wandering through the flower beds rather than doing any strenuous walking. The rose bushes were directly under the window of his room, and in the new springtime, he kept the windows open to offer in the fresh air and sunshine. The smell of the roses called to him throughout the day, distracting him from his daily reading and making him count down the minutes until he could leave his rooms and go outside.

Today, the smell of the flowers seemed particularly potent, curling into the deepest corners of his brain and hooking in deep, calling to him in their silent language. He barely got through the assigned chapter of his book. He had been assigned several romance novels since his engagement; his latest reading was apparently meant to tighten and hone his studies that would prepare him to be a good wife by the time of his winter wedding. He would barely have anything to tell his tutor when he saw her the next day, and he hoped the lesson he was supposed to take away was obedience. It usually was.

When the hour of his allotted exercise struck, he stood up from his desk and neatly gathered his striped cream skirts in an presentable manner. He grabbed the seashell pink hat on his dresser and placed it on top of his hair, neatly styled in an array of twists, and then picked up his white gloves and pulled them onto his hands before he ventured outside.

His loafer covered feet hit the stone back steps with renewed certainty, and he smiled as he inhaled the fresh air. The manor was his home, but too often he felt squeezed in by its walls, like a flower being pressed by the pages of a diary. Outside, he felt his chest lighten, and his back straightened. He looked to his side and immediately his gaze found a thick set of rose bushes, and his feet floated in that direction. The gardeners grew all colors, no doubt in response to Harry’s maids constantly asking for various options. There were blooms in coral pink and goldenrod orange and white that was tinged with unmistakable undertones of egg blue, but in the midst of all of them were several fully bloomed splashes of red, the color of an open heart.

Harry came towards them, tilting his head to examine them. They were all delicate and lovely, each the work of perfectionist. Misshapen flowers simply did not bloom in the Styles garden, they were found before they could grow and snipped at the root to let something more beautiful grow in its place. Harry admired them, smiling at the flowers, his eyes nodding over each curved petal.

His gaze paused on one particular rose, right in the middle of the bush. It was large, and seemingly perfect, each curve and ridge smooth and leading perfectly into the other. The color was rich and consistent throughout, not a single flaw or spot in sight. And although every flower around it was beautiful, this single bloom suddenly made them all seem pale in comparison.

Carefully, Harry removed his gloves, tucked them into his belt, and reached forward to touch. 

He held the flower delicately, spreading his long fingers around the silken petals that opened wide at the edges of the flower. It was deep red, pure and violent, and he could see every detail of it, from the slightly darker veins that ran through it, to every unfurling petal inside.

He held the flower with one hand and brought a finger of the other hand to delicately stroke over the edges of the petals, feeling their velvet texture. His finger moved deeper, brushing against the other petals to look deeper inside the flower, to explore more of its workings, to move into its very heart. His fingertip swirled into the center, plucking at the place where there had once been a tight, sealed rosebud and now was the very essence of the blooming flower.

Harry smiled to himself, his hand idly touching and stroking, his head tilting and leaning forward to look into it.

He was so entranced that he barely noticed his other hand floated down the stem of the flower, pressing closer, until there was a sharp pain radiating from his finger.

The omega yanked his hand back and shouted, holding up his finger. He could see red, the same color of the rose’s petals, against the pale skin of his manicured hand, and deeper inside his cut, the dark shape of a thorn.

He whimpered as he looked at it, holding out his hand helplessly. He used to get all sorts of cuts and splinters as a child, but his nanny had always plucked them out for him, and he didn’t know how to get it out on his own. He knew right away his fingers were too big to pluck it out. Maybe he could use his teeth, but all that would do would get blood on his face and honestly probably make it worse.

He heard a rustle from his right, and he jumped, spinning around at the sound.

It was one of the gardeners, a working alpha boy from the town whom his father had hired at the beginning of the summer. Harry had seen him puttering around the gardens a few times, usually tending to the flowers, watering them, and snipping away unwanted weeds. He was one of the few workers who was not a beta; his father was strict about who he let into his household, and he said that omegas tempted his own morals as an alpha man, and that having alphas around was simply irresponsible with two unmated omega children in the house. Perhaps now that Gemma was married and moved away and Harry was betrothed, his father had loosened his own rules. The gardener boy certainly did take excellent care of the flowers.

But now the boy was right in front of Harry, in his patched-up trousers and muddy rubber boots and a startled expression on his face. Harry rarely came into the gardens when the workers were there, and if he had known an alpha would be there, he would have taken greater care to avoid him. Already the alpha’s scent, sharp cedarwood and raw black tea leaves, was overwhelming him.

“Miss Styles?” the gardener said, “Are you hurt?”

Harry instinctively moved his hand up to his chest to hide it, but there was a fair bit of blood on his fingers, obviously seeping down his hand.

“It’s nothing,” he said, his voice clipped, “I – “

His voice faltered, and he winced again at the pain in his hand.

“I just pricked myself, that’s all.”

“On what?” the gardener asked, and Harry huffed.

“On a rose. I have a thorn in my finger,” Harry said, “It’s alright. I’ll just go get the nurse.”

He turned, ready to go into the house, but he felt a hand on his elbow. He jumped, whirling around so quickly his skirts whipped and scraped wildly on the path. The gardener tossed his hands up, his eyes wide.

“Apologies,” he said, “I just – if you want to, I can go fix that up for you. I have some tweezers and a medical kit in the shed.”

He gestured behind him, and Harry looked in that direction to see the tiny wooden shack nestled between the honeysuckle bushes. He had never known what it was for. It seemed to make sense that it would be a place for the employees’ things.

“I can probably fix you up faster than you find your nurse,” the alpha said, “I promise, it’ll be quick and easy.”

Harry gave him a long look, his frown deepening the longer he looked. He had never had a reason to be afraid of anyone or anything on this estate. Actually, he wasn’t even afraid of the alpha gardener. He was an alpha, but he was pretty small for his gender. He was even shorter than Harry, and he was slender and wiry, probably a result of poor nutrition and health. He could not be that strong, not enough to hurt Harry. And they were so close to the house, Harry could shout.

But even though his mind catastrophized, he felt his stomach stir with warmth. The alpha didn’t seem to mean him any harm. He knew, deep down, that was a naïve state of mind, and one that got omegas like into all sort of trouble that spoiled their dowries and their futures. But past that, Harry suddenly felt very sure that no, just this once, this would be okay.

“Fine,” Harry said out loud, straightening his shoulders, “You may help me.”

The alpha gave him a wry smile, and then nodded his head towards the shed and began to walk towards it, forcing Harry to trot behind.

Harry followed the other man to the shed, and watched as the gardener fiddled with the shoddy looking lock on the door. He pushed it open and allowed Harry to walk inside first. The shed was dark and cramped, full of dangerous looking tools and tiny plants in pots. Harry looked around awkwardly, and the alpha came around in front of him.

“Go on and sit,” he offered, gesturing to where there was a small bench with a worn-looked cushion at the back of the shed.

Harry came over cautiously, peering at the surface of the cushion. It didn’t exactly look beautiful, but it also seemed clean, so he sat and arranged his skirts carefully with his uninjured hand. The alpha was rifling through the shelves around the shed, and finally came across a small kit and pulled something from it. Then he came back around to Harry and kneeled in front of him, holding up a small pair of tweezers for Harry to see.

“Let me see your hand, please,” the gardener said, and Harry hesitantly gave it to him. He took hold of Harry’s wrist, not ungently, and examined his wounded finger.

“Oh, perfectly simple,” he nodded, and then lifted the tweezers up and leaned forward. He prodded at the cut, clipping the tweezers into the broken skin, which made Harry jump.

“Ow!” Harry shrieked loudly, yanking his hand away, “You are hurting me!”

The gardener just looked at him, offering a small sigh. His mouth was straight but his eyes were laughing.

“Miss Styles,” he sighed, “The thorn is hurting you. I am trying to relieve you of the thorn.”

Harry frowned.

“But you are hurting me by trying.”

“Sometimes, Miss, we must endure a bit more pain to be happy,” the alpha said, “Now please, give me your hand back.”

Harry paused, sniffling a bit, and then gently reached out his hand, straightening his fingers. The alpha took his hand again, holding it firmly, and held out the pair of tweezers again to pluck at the thorn. Harry winced and tried to swallow down the sound of his cry, but it still came out, a muffled, pitiful sound trapped behind his closed lips. The gardener looked up and smiled, a real one that touched his lips.

“It’s alright,” he said, and Harry nodded.

“Do not get blood on my skirts,” he said tersely, which made the alpha laugh.

“I would not dream of it, Miss.”

The alpha dug into Harry’s scrape with the tweezers, and then, Harry felt him nudge at the thorn firmly with the metal. He gasped again, not even bothering to hide it, and once again, he received a smile.

“Alright now, alright,” the other man said. He tugged on the thorn, the tweezer clicking a bit, and then he gave a slow, firm tug. Harry moaned, quiet and defeated, and then looked down. His finger was still bleeding, but the gardener was holding up a little black thorn from between the tweezers, both the thorn and the tips of the metal darkened by Harry’s blood.

“There we are,” the alpha said, “All done.”

Harry swallowed, looking down.

“Please put that away,” he said, “Blood makes me feel ill.”

“Of course,” the gardener said, and Harry was quietly pleased at the lack of a smart comment from the man.

When he looked back up, the other man had crossed to the other side of the gardener’s shack, and he was picking up a small wooden box. He came back over to Harry a moment later and flipped the box open, revealing a collection of bandages and a few small, clear bottles.

“Let me mend your hand,” the gardener offered, and Harry frowned.

“You are not trained,” he said, which made the alpha laugh.

“Bandaging a thorn prick is hardly heart surgery,” he said, “Please. It will take only a moment.”

Harry looked at the other man for a long moment, and then thrust out his hand.

“You must be careful,” he said, “I have piano lessons this afternoon.”

“Then I will make sure your hands are in perfect shape for such an important task.”

Harry could not tell if the gardener was making fun of him. But he smiled like he wasn’t.

The alpha picked up Harry’s hand and cleaned it with a soft pad doused in clear liquid from one of the bottles, which made Harry hiss from the stinging sensation. But the feeling subsided, and then, the gardener was tightly wrapping his finger tip in a length of cotton bandages. He wrapped them around twice, and then three times, his blue eyes lifting to meet Harry’s as he performed the task.

“Tell me if it is too tight, Miss,” he said, and Harry merely shook his head.

“It’s alright.”

The gardener nodded again, and then finally secured the bandage in place and gave Harry another look.

“There you are,” he smiled, “You braved the thorn bushes and have lived the tell the tale, battle wounds and all.”

Harry allowed himself to smile at the comment, and pressed his injured hand to his chest, using his other hand to pick up his skirts and stand.

“Well, thank you,” he said, already moving out of the way of the gardener as he packed up his supplies.

“No trouble, Miss,” he said. He was already looking away from Harry, packing up his medical kit, and for whatever reason, Harry did not like that he was looking away from him.

“Let me know if I can repay you in some way,” Harry said. He gave his skirts an extra rustle, making a soft, papery sound, and the alpha turned. He offered Harry a smile, but Harry couldn’t tell if it was sincere or patronizing.

“Perhaps sneak in a good word with your father for me,” the alpha said, “Tell him Louis deserves a raise for his terrific work on the rose bushes.”

Louis. Oh. Alright. Harry tucked that into the back of his mind.

“I will tell him,” Harry said, “Thank – thank you. Goodbye.”

He reached out, clutching the handle of the gardener’s shed door, and pushed, but to no avail.

“You have to pull it,” Louis offered from behind Harry, and Harry huffed.

“I knew that,” he snapped, and gave the door a great yank. It banged against his leg and he winced, but he tried to hide the sound. Louis had already sounded close to laughing at him before.

Harry hobbled out of the shed and let the door slam closed behind him. He straightened up, running his uninjured hand over his hair, and then folded both hands in front of him and tilted his chin back before walking back to the house, ignoring the pain in his leg and in his hand, and the unwelcome blush in his cheeks.

He clearly needed to stop exerting himself, he told himself, it wasn’t doing him any good.

The omega looked down at his hands, then, his eyes catching on the bandage on his finger. His body felt hot at the thought of Louis touching his hands so firmly and gently, as if there was nothing wrong with an unmated alpha touching his own employer. He felt his stomach stir.

Quickly, he reached for his gloves at his belt and freed them, then worked to put them on his hands. His fingers fumbled, making the task difficult. But he felt a sudden urgency to hide the bandage, to avoid anyone asking him what had happened and who had helped him. The bandages were too neat for Harry’s hands to have done alone. Of course someone would ask who had helped. And he did not want to entertain any questions.

The gloves slid over his fingers, catching only slightly on the bandage, and he looked down at them. There was a slight bulge at the tip of one finger, where there was padded cotton underneath the fabric of the glove, but he knew only he would notice that. Everyone else would be under the impression that nothing at all had happened. And it was true – what had happened in the shed was surely nothing. A barely notable occurrence, really.

The words did not seem true in Harry’s head.

He huffed and clasped his hands in front of him, squeezing them together tightly. He lifted his head, rolling his shoulders back, putting on the form he had practiced all his life, that was supposed to hide anything.

It did not settle the stirring in his belly.

Harry walked back towards the house.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: eeveelou


End file.
